Secrets
by Lil black dog
Summary: This is an immediate sequel to 'A Mother's Love' so it would be best to read that story first and was inspired by the free write entitled 'Of Sock Drawers' at Ad Astra. What does Spock keep in his 'sock drawer? Certainly not what you'd expect.


A/N: This is an immediate sequel to 'A Mother's Love' (so it would be best to read that story first) and was inspired by the free write entitled 'Of Sock Drawers' at Ad Astra. What does Spock keep in his 'sock drawer'? Certainly not what you'd expect. The story is peppered with allusions to some of my other works, as well as TOS episodes and movies. Understanding all of those really isn't necessary, but does add some emotional weight to the piece.

**Secrets**

He folded the letter carefully, replacing it in the envelope, still reeling from the content. It had been a most difficult few months. During that span of time, the number of people who had had a significant impact on his life, for whom he harbored feelings frowned upon by his culture, had been cut in half; had dwindled from four to just two.

Rising to his feet, the paper clutched tightly in his fist, he made his way to his bedroom. Opening his closet he rummaged around on the top shelf, reaching behind old uniforms and clothing from his past, his probing fingers finally closing on a smooth, wooden box.

Lifting it down carefully, he crossed to his bed, seating himself on the edge, depositing his prize and the letter next to him on the plain coverlet. Resting his hand briefly on the lid, he contemplated the meaning this little, unassuming box held for him.

Permitting himself a small sigh he flipped open the hinged top, steeling himself against what it contained; against the strong feelings the items hidden inside were sure to evoke.

Glancing down his eyes came to rest on the last item to be placed within, just shy of twenty-five years ago. With trembling fingers he reached inside, fishing out the object in question.

It had been a gift from his captain, presented to him shortly after their shore leave on Triani Prime. That had been a turning point in their relationship; led each of them to a better, deeper understanding of the other, and had paved the way for the bond of t'hy'la to blossom between them. That had only been possible thanks to McCoy's intervention, for he had been the one who insisted upon—no, ordered—that fateful leave. For all his mixed feelings and misgivings about the doctor's often volatile, highly-excitable nature, that man alone was possessed of a profound understanding of just what he and Jim had meant to each other over the years. McCoy was many things—most of which Spock found to be quite irritating—but there was no denying that he was an astute judge of people. Spock's close friendship with Jim had the surgeon's fingerprints all over it. He was ashamed of the fact that, after all this time, he had still neglected to thank McCoy for that gift—given freely and without the slightest hesitation. And the way things were going of late, he'd better do it soon, before it, too became an impossibility.

Turning the smooth object over in his fingers, he was struck again by the simplistic beauty of the piece, but even more so by what it represented. The bits of ebony and ivory were combined in perfect harmony to comprise a symbol that had been a component of Earth's history for countless millennia, important not only to the culture that had invented it, but a myriad of others as well across the ages.

"It's a yin and yang symbol," Jim had informed him unnecessarily; he'd already been familiar with the icon and all it was meant to represent. At the time though, he had feigned ignorance, as much out of deference to Jim to allow him to explain why he thought this was an appropriate gift for Spock, as to deny how this ancient philosophy so perfectly applied to him personally. "It's what I hope for, what I envision for you one day, my friend. I want you to be able to find that balance between your Vulcan and human halves that will finally allow you to be comfortable in your own skin."

Fortunately, his captain, his friend, his t'hy'la, had lived long enough to see that dream realized. It had taken many years, with a few painful missteps along the way—Gol, most notably—but he'd eventually come into his own, become that person who had finally found his place in the world; taken the first tentative steps in this direction once Earth had been saved from the alien probe by George and Gracie. As the years passed, that path had become ever clearer and more and more he had found the strength within him to walk it with his head held high.

Pressing the piece between his fingers for a moment, he deposited it on his bedspread next to the letter as his eyes came to rest on the next item: It was also a piece of paper, old and weatherworn, a gift from Leonard McCoy. He plucked it from the box, his mind straying to the circumstances that had caused it to be in his possession.

Afterward, on the bridge, he had admitted that it represented the first time in his life he'd been happy. The spores on Omicron Ceti III had taken over all the inhabitants of the ship, save for the captain. Spock had been one of the first crewmembers to become infected, their influence freeing his human half; giving wings to the side of him that had been hidden, suppressed, repressed, almost since his birth. They had not only allowed him to express his love—both verbally and physically—for a woman from his past, but had also made dealing with his human shipmates much less awkward. What had once been a difficult, often confusing task had suddenly become much easier, as if he'd been blind before and could now suddenly see.

This had been especially true of McCoy. Of all of the new personnel who had come on board during those first few months of the ship's five-year mission, the doctor had been the one crew member most likely to clash with Spock's inflexible, stoic personality. And these clashes had been frequent, and often volatile, at least on McCoy's part. But all of this had changed dramatically on Omicron Ceti III. Under the influence of the spores, he and the doctor had gotten along famously. That's where this piece of paper had come into play.

Spock unfolded it carefully, his eyes skimming over the words, the nearly illegible penmanship indicative of the handwriting of doctors over countless centuries. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he read what was written there.

"Here, Spock," McCoy had said at the time, handing him the then crisp, uncreased sheet of paper. "It's a recipe for mint juleps, and trust me, no one makes 'em like us Southerners," he had drawled, grinning widely at Spock. "Now that you've let your hair down, pulled that stick out of your ass so to speak, you're much more fun to be around. And these will help to loosen you up even more. Who knows, you might even turn out to be the life of the party." With a wink and a nod, McCoy had then disappeared into the countryside, his own tall drink in hand.

At the time, with his inhibitions completely overpowered by the spores, Spock had fully intended to try one, but that had never come to pass. The captain had discovered the secret to counteracting the effects of the spores before he had had the chance to do so.

So why had he kept this for all these years? Once the spores had been destroyed and he had returned to his right mind, he'd had no interest whatsoever in making or even tasting the strange, alcoholic concoction. And yet, it represented the first time he and the doctor had gotten along; seen eye to eye on something. After that brief respite, their relationship had once again returned to the rocky, unstable base upon which it was built, but this scrap of paper represented a hope of sorts—an indication of what was possible between them if each could overcome their stubborn, innate distaste for the idiosyncrasies of the other. For that reason alone, he found that he'd been unable to part with it. Their relationship had never again been like that which they had shared for those few hours, but over the years it had settled into a place that felt right, and comfortable, for both of them. And as it stood now, McCoy was the only close friend he had left.

This page joined the other articles on his bed as his eyes came to rest on the next item in the box. Seeing it produced a number of conflicting emotions that raged and battered against one another within him. He carefully lifted the small, leather-bound book from the wooden container. The cover made of le'matya hide, it had been a gift from his father upon the successful completion of his Kahs Wan.

It was a collection of the writings of Surak, and at the time, he had been secretly pleased, certain that it had been given as a token of his father's hard-won pride in him. "This is for thee, my son. Thee have earned it, and shown thyself to be a worthy representative of thy Vulcan heritage," his father had said.

That notion had faded quickly, as he came to understand it was meant to be a blueprint for how his father expected him to live his life, now that he had chosen the non-emotion of the Vulcan people as his life's path. The slightest deviations, or perceived deviations from that path had been met with stern disapproval, and were among the factors that led him to choose Starfleet as his career path—a choice that had caused an almost insurmountable rift between him and his father for many years. So why did it hold a special significance for him? Like the piece from McCoy, it represented the potential that could be realized between them, if each were willing to budge even a little with regard to the other.

His thoughts strayed to the doctor once again. While Spock knew McCoy had some happy memories of the time he spent with his father as a child, something had caused that to change, and McCoy and his father had been estranged for many years. The doctor had not chosen to enlighten him as to the cause of this falling out, but Spock knew there had been a reconciliation in later years. The gruff surgeon was by his father's side as the man drew his last breath, his only son's presence able to ease David McCoy's passing.

Would Spock and his own father come to an understanding before it was too late? Things between them had improved since Spock's rebirth after Genesis, but there was still such a long road to traverse. And his mother's death last week had only added to that length. She had been their bridge of sorts, helping each to see the other through fresh eyes. And now that bridge was gone, never to be rebuilt again.

Now he had come to the final item, given to him when he was but five years of age. His eyes blurred as he reached for this last, most special treasure. Lifting it from the box, he was transported to that simpler time in his youth, when the pressures to be wholly Vulcan had not been quite so heavy. He turned the item over and over, its many strands catching the dim light of his bedroom, making it seem to shimmer, despite its age.

He remembered the day he had received it quite well. He'd arrived home from school with a bruised and bloodied lip, his clothes covered in the red dust that blanketed every corner of his home world. His mother had questioned him but he had stubbornly, sullenly refused to reveal the taunts of his schoolmates, directed at her, that had resulted in his injuries.

Understanding that it was somehow a private matter she had stopped her inquiries and simply marched him into the bathroom, tending to his wounds, both physical and emotional, in that unique way of hers that he had only come to appreciate once she was no longer part of his life on a daily basis.

The next morning, he had discovered this on his nightstand—a lock of her hair, bound together with a simple purple ribbon. No note or words of explanation had accompanied the gift, but then none had been needed. It was her way of telling him she'd always be with him, no matter the circumstances or course his life would take. He had slipped it into an inside pocket of his carryall, a secret, daily companion from that day forth, and when he had left for the Academy, it was the first item he had placed in his box of treasured mementos. Keeping it for all this time had been his way of expressing his feelings for her; feelings that for the longest time couldn't, mustn't be put into words.

Gingerly, reverently, he slipped the lock of his mother's hair into the linen envelope, gently placing the letter on the bottom of the box. It was only fitting. With that letter, the message she had tried to impart to him all those years ago had come full circle. She had finally found the means to express all those things, those feelings, which had been left unsaid between them on that day so long ago, and in the many years since, for both of them. And he loved her for it.


End file.
